


Dance in my living room, love with an attitude

by TooRational



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Dancing, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Party, Podfic Welcome, Teenagers, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22771999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: He lifts his head up to check the atmosphere — still going strong on the dance floor — when a flailing limb catches his eye, obvious even under the strobe lights of the disco ball he installed just for this occasion.It's an incredibly pale hand, unmarked by tattoos or birthmarks, which is a rarity in the circles Pete moves in; attached to a boy with a pale face and light hair.A boy that Pete doesn't recognize.Or: Pete has the worst Valentine's Day ever. Pete has thebestValentine's Day ever.(It's Patrick. The difference is Patrick. Obviously.)
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 22
Kudos: 60
Collections: Be My Peterick Valentine 2020





	Dance in my living room, love with an attitude

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post anything for this challenge because a) I'm meh about Valentine's day, and b) I had no inspiration whatsoever. Then I heard 'Only human' by the Jonas brothers and my muse attached itself to a few lines from the song and I was done for.
> 
> Working title "Dance kids", so, you know. Expect dorkiness everywhere. And my usual flailing.
> 
> Happy V-day, fandom. <3

Pete is _not_ happy.

In fact, he's currently in a full on sulk mode in the middle of a party, which is ironic because it's _his_ Valentine's day party, and _his_ living room, and he was looking forward to it for approximately the last _forever_ , and now that it's finally here, he _hates it_.

Like, _a lot_.

And he'd prepared everything so carefully, too.

His parents are on a romantic getaway for the weekend ( _barf_ ), and his siblings are on various sleepovers ( _very_ , completely _innocent_ sleepovers; come on, they're _babies_ ), which means there are no judgmental, curious, unwanted eyes in the house.

He put away all the fragile items yesterday in hope of limiting the inevitable damage, and locked all the bedroom doors on top of that.

He even bought a keg and left it to chill for 24 hours, despite the BYOB nature of the party.

But none of that matters anymore because it's all _ruined_. The girl Pete wanted to come the most, the one he organized an entire party on Valentine's day _for_ , has made it perfectly clear she wouldn't be caught dead at such an event. The reason is not quite clear to Pete, but it might have something to do with his lack of ambition, or appropriate connections, or possibly his lecherous Peter Pan reputation? Maybe all three?

She was particularly vicious about it, too, going for maximum public humiliation, what with appearing at the party for the sole reason of rebuffing him and then flouncing away.

Which, _hel-loo_ , you've just _appeared_ at the party you said you wouldn't be caught dead at, isn't that a bit contradictory?

Whatever.

So anyway, Pete's sulking at his own party, watching his friends have fun and dance with their girlfriends, and boyfriends, and crushes, and hook ups, and what _the fuck_ , is _everyone_ pairing up tonight? Where the fuck are the ace and aro kids?

...ugh, probably at home, the brilliant beans. Most of them don't want anything to do with this holiday.

It seems Pete is gonna have to suffer through this night, and this party, alone. He desperately wants to find the nearest body of water to drown himself in, but he can't quite leave the house unsupervised. His parents would kill him _dead_.

Not even the mix he made — which is doing an excellent job of drawing everyone to the makeshift dance floor, bee tee dubs, no need for false modesty here — is able to cheer Pete up.

He checks what the next few songs are just to have something to do.

Still upbeat and dancey. Ugh. If only he could switch them up for some screamo death metal or something, it would make him feel _so_ much better. But alas, he likes his friends too much for that.

And besides, _someone_ should have a good time at least, since Pete clearly isn't going to.

He lifts his head up to check the atmosphere — still going strong on the dance floor — when a flailing limb catches his eye, obvious even under the strobe lights of the disco ball he installed just for this occasion.

It's an incredibly pale hand, unmarked by tattoos or birthmarks, which is a rarity in the circles Pete moves in; attached to a boy with a pale face and light hair.

A boy that Pete doesn't recognize.

And okay, it's not like he usually has bouncers at the door or knows every single person that appears at his parties, but this kid seems a bit young to be here.

That's the only reason he keeps an eye on the kid for the next few songs, _swear_ to... whatever higher power there is, _if_ there is one; Pete is keeping a hopeful and open mind so far, but he's starting to become a little iffy on the subject.

But _any-_ way, it's totally not the way the boy is dancing that's making Pete look, though it's a pretty dorky dance, and _painfully_ white. It's just that the boy is, like, in the right hand corner part of the living room and almost hidden behind a plant and definitely short enough to be swallowed up by the crowd every time it moves even a little bit, _goddammit._ If it weren't for his pale-beacon-arms, Pete would lose him completely.

Oh, _fine_. So he's _looking_.

Is he not allowed a little happiness today? A little _eye candy_ to soothe his bruised heart?

If you cut him, _does Pete not bleed, too_?

He sure does. Did. Today. As recently as an hour ago.

But back to Cute Boy.

There's a lack of self-consciousness in the boy's movements, a freedom that draws Pete's gaze again and again, like some sort of weird, flesh magnet. The kid is lost in the music, and it appears he's alone, too; a couple of people that might be friends have drifted in and out, checked on him and left at various intervals.

Pete stays behind his little counter space and observes.

That's all it is, honest, simple observation, a completely harmless—

The boy stomps both feet in a _horribly_ adorable jumping-up-and-down move, and Pete throws in the proverbial towel, shirt, _and_ self-control.

He stops messing around with his playlist, adding and taking off the same songs over and over, and dives into the crowd; says hi to various friends, slides by and around people, shifts half-drunk people out of his path, and soon enough, he's reached Cute Boy.

He's still dancing, turned mostly away from Pete, and all Pete needs now is a way to draw attention to himself.

No problem _at all_.

Pete starts dancing — meaning he 'starts throwing his limbs around outrageously' — and 'accidentally' bumps into Cute Boy.

The boy turns around, face pulled into a sheepish 'oh, shit, sorry' expression, and he is _indeed_ very cute, even up close. His eyes are light, a shade Pete can't distinguish in the dark, and his lips are a completely mesmerizing, distracting, plump shape that he _has to look away from right now RIGHTNOW_.

Pete grins charmingly at Cute Boy and gently hip-checks him, then follows it up with the Uma Thurman eye-scissors, and the boy _laughs_ and repeats the move back at him with a _ridiculous_ pout that Pete wants to _bite_ , and _ohhhh shit_ , Pete's in _so much trouble_.

Cute Boy pulls a patented Travolta™ precisely in the latest song's rhythm and Pete throws his head back and laughs helplessly, amazed by this tiny human.

Who would have thought the night would bring such a surprise to his very doorstep, and deliver it, wrapped in a pair of not-so-tight jeans and a Saves the Day t-shirt?

_Horrible-girl effing_ who _?_ crows Pete's brain.

When he looks back at him, Cute Boy looks proud of himself, a smug smile curling his shamelessly tempting lips, and Pete almost, _almost_ kisses him right then and there.

But he refrains. Let it not be said that Peter Kingston Lewis Wentz the Third has no self-control whatsoever. It's there, just a bit… tattered.

It's a good decision, one Pete pats himself on the back for, because they dance in each other's orbits for a few songs and make each other laugh, and they keep dancing and screaming lyrics into each other's faces, sweaty and bumping into anyone and everyone (again, mainly each other), and soon they're doing everything from headbanging, to air guitars, to hopping like rabbits, to trying to break-dance (they stop doing that one very quickly, on grounds of injury to themselves and everyone else around them), until Pete loses all sense of time and space, loses all inhibitions, too, until music starts coursing through him and washes away everything plaguing his mind and soul, until Pete lets everything _go_ for the first time in a while.

He loses sight of everyone else but Cute Boy, too; his beautiful smile, and dazzlingly bad dance moves that contain the occasional (and startling) dirty air-grinding; until he finds himself drawing to a stop as a slow song starts, panting and high on endorphins and a brand new crush.

Cute Boy looks uncertain now, sweaty and messy-haired, panting as hard as Pete is, hands firmly behind his back — probably stuck in the back pockets of his jeans, if Pete needs to guess — and Pete falls and falls and _falls_ , no landing in sight.

He steps close, deliberate as he hasn't been while they were goofing around, and slowly reaches out to hook his pointer finger into one of Cute Boy's belt loops. He tugs a little, a question as much as an invitation, and Cute Boy swallows but moves forward, big eyes fixed on Pete's face.

"Okay?" Pete asks once they're pressed together, hands cupping Cute Boy's hip bones, their bodies aligned and moving in a slow rhythm, their noses so close, they're nearly touching.

Cute Boy nods, and the look he shoots Pete underneath his eyelashes is _devastating_.

Pete smiles and slides his arms around the boy's waist, and when he tucks his head down so he can nuzzle their cheeks together, he feels Cute Boy shiver.

_Delicious_ , Pete thinks, and does it again.

"What's your name?" Cute Boy asks, hands shyly landing on Pete's shoulders, and it's an innocent touch, but somehow it _still_ manages to send tiny lightning bolts zooming all throughout Pete's body.

"Pete."

"Patrick," Cute Boy says.

There's something about the way he says it that makes Pete think this is a boy who doesn't do nicknames.

"Patrick," Pete says, just to check how right his hunch is, and he's rewarded with a brilliant grin and a nod when he pulls back to look at the boy's — _Patrick's_ — face.

"Hi, Patrick," Pete says again, liking the way the name tastes, the _sounds_ it's made of.

"Hi," Patrick repeats after him, eyebrows raising a bit in a wordless ' _uhh_ ' move.

"What are you doing at a college party, Patrick?" Pete asks with the sole intention of making Patrick squirm, and _it works_.

"Who says I'm not in college?" Patrick says with a lift of his chin, a clear challenge on his face, and Pete is going to _die_ , cause of death: Patrick's cuteness.

"Cause you look, like, _twelve_ , dude."

He doesn't, he _really_ doesn't, but please, Higher Power, _please_ don't fuck Pete over by making Patrick underage.

"I'm seventeen!" Patrick says, outraged, and okay, _fine_ , not quite the target age but _good enough_.

"Are you sure?" Pete makes a show out of squinting at Patrick suspiciously, but the effect is ruined by the way he tightens his arms around Patrick, sways their bodies to the beat, Patrick's pliant enough to follow his lead automatically.

Patrick rolls his eyes at him but it's _totally_ a fond eye roll.

Pete can tell.

"My friend Joe dragged me with him, said he needed a wing-man. Which is _so_ fucking funny because I haven't seen him for more than a minute since I got here. Anyway, he knows the guy who threw the party."

Patrick is babbling, and it's making Pete want to pick him up and take him somewhere far away from everyone, until he agrees to be Pete's and _only_ Pete's.

Pete grins, all 'best foot forward' but in smile form, and says, "Well, that's weird, since _I'm_ the guy who threw the party and I don't know any Joes."

He actually knows a bunch of Joes, but he didn't recognize any of the people talking to Patrick earlier, and he's already addicted to making him squirm.

Patrick splutters, cheeks blazing red visible even underneath the flush he worked up while dancing.

"I'm sorry, you're gonna have to pay the entrance fee or leave," Pete bluffs — like he's letting Patrick out of his sight ever again, _please_ — and curses himself when he sees Patrick's face fall.

"A kiss," he adds hurriedly, heart beating an urgent ' _don't fuck this up_ ' in his chest. "One measly, tiny little kiss, and you can stay as long as you'd like."

Patrick looks up at him, surprised — which, _how_ can he be surprised, aren't people lining up to kiss him, what is _wrong_ with them? — before swallowing and giving a jerky nod.

"Okay," Patrick adds, the word quiet enough to almost get lost in the rising beat of the new song.

He's _just_ that much shorter than Pete that he has to tilt his head up a bit, and Pete can't resist sliding the pad of his finger under his chin, 'helping' the movement. Lips parted and eyes hooded, Cute Boy Patrick is the image of temptation and it sends Pete's heart into palpitations, makes the butterflies swarm in Pete's belly, sends warmth coursing through his veins.

Pete kisses Patrick, _finally_ , gentle and chaste, giving himself a few wonderful seconds of plush softness, and then another one just to make sure that this is _definitely_ what he wants to do again and again and _again_.

It is.

It _so_ is.

Pete's in _so much trouble_.

He pulls back reluctantly — it _sucks_ and he _doesn't want to_ , but doesn't want to freak Patrick out either — and nods.

Trying at nonchalance and probably failing miserably, he says, "Alright, good, um. I guess you're clear to sta—"

He's cut off by Patrick lunging forward and kissing Pete again, arm hooked around Pete's neck to pull him closer, lips clumsy but hot and eager on Pete's, and _oh god_ , Pete is going to _die_ from how fucking _good_ this feels.

He basks in the feeling of Patrick's solid, feverishly hot body pressed against his for a moment, then draws him even closer, brings one hand up from Patrick's waist to cup his cheek and tilt his head _just so_ , and dives into Patrick's mouth like it's an excavation expedition of the motherfucking pyramids.

Patrick moans, Pete can _feel_ the vibrations of it against his chest, but can't quite make it out above the noise. He vows to himself to draw it out again, once it's quiet enough for him to hear. He's going to draw _all_ the noises out of Patrick, make him shake apart in all the ways, make him _sing_.

They kiss until the lack of air becomes critical enough they simply _have to_ separate, so they do it, gulp down oxygen quickly, _greedily_ , and do it all over again.

They're both trembling some eons later, when Pete manages to convince his mind and body to put an inch of space between him and Patrick; Pete's lips are buzzing like angry bees while Patrick's look swollen and tender and _still_ so inviting, so Pete closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Patrick's to avoid the temptation.

He is such a wonderful temptation, though, Patrick the Cute Boy. Patrick the Conqueror of Bruised Hearts. Patrick the Dancer, whose light fingers are drumming some sort of beat on the back of Pete's neck. He might even be humming, the absolute _deviant_.

Pete is _so gone_ on him already, it's kind of ridiculous.

Where the fuck did he even _come from_? Pete has to find out who this Joe guy is and send him a thank-you card.

_Wait._

A neuron (mis)fires deep inside of Pete's messy brain, and he remembers a Joe, and an Idea, and a Boy Joe wanted to introduce him to, a boy named—

Patrick startles when Pete pulls back but doesn't let go.

He _doesn't let go_.

_Holy shit._

"What?" Patrick mouths, and wow.

_Wow._

Is this for real? Can Pete _be_ this lucky?

Can't hurt to try, right?

"So, I've been thinking about starting a band..." Pete yells into Patrick's ear, and thinks to himself ' _Best Valentine's Day_ ** _ever_** '.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumbhlars.](https://toorational.tumblr.com)


End file.
